Outlaw (13 page)

IN THE SPACE of an hour I was transformed from the proper, albeit filthy, Southern belle who’d grown up in Atlanta, Georgia, into a Tulim woman. My skin was still white and my hair was still long and straight, but in every other respect I began to believe that I could be beautiful.

They disposed of my blouse, but rather than blacken all of my skin with pigment, they accentuated my femininity with wide blue swaths down my chest to my belly button, where they came to a point, like a blade. Blue streaks brightened my cheeks and eyes. A light oil that tanned my flesh was rubbed over my entire body so that it shone in the sun. They fixed tiny red beads along the ridge of my shoulders and on the backs of my hands.

Like a group of chattering, giggling girls half their age, Melino’s servants decorated my body as I stood still with my arms spread. The necklace they placed around my neck was made from seven mother-of-pearl shells that flashed in the sun. Using golden bands for my arms and legs, and an elaborate headdress made from red and black seeds and beautiful cockatoo feathers, they changed me into a woman who might make any Las Vegas chorus dancer stare with envy.

The skirt they brought for me was nearly identical to the one she wore. Melino was attempting to present me as a version of herself, as magnificent and royal as any woman in the valley save for my white skin, and even that looked purposeful, as if applied as a part of my makeup.

I emerged from the forest with Lela and the servants, where they presented me to Melino, who looked me over with a critical eye. I admit, I felt utterly self-conscious. My mother would have turned in her grave.

But then Melino smiled and nodded her approval. “Now I see a true Tulim woman, the envy of Kirutu.”

The servants covered their mouths and giggled at such an audacious statement.

“Do you like it?” I asked. “I don’t look too odd?”

“You look like a rare treasure from the most secret place,” she said. “A forbidden fruit that no man can resist.”

She laid her palm on my chest. “Now you must become Tulim in your heart. Let no stray thought steal this from you. We must go, the feast is underway.”

I recalled her encouragement a hundred times as we made our way down to the pounding drums. I was at a complete loss as to how I might impress Wilam, but I knew that I would leave the feast either with him or with Kirutu, and the faintest thought of being handed over to Kirutu filled me with dread.

The moment we stepped from the tree line and looked out over the celebration, any thoughts of seducing Wilam fled my mind and I knew that I was doomed.

The field was sloped on either side, similar to the one near the Impirum village, cleared by hand with one massive tree at its center. Hundreds of women bent over smoking pits near the bordering trees. Here boars and vegetables roasted, waiting to be eaten at the end of the ceremony. Several thousand warriors danced on both sides, close to the jungle, bobbing and chanting to percussive drums. Their dark bodies were greased and painted, topped with feathers and furs. The field had become a canvas for all of nature’s glory.

But it was that very rudimentary, naked magnificence that struck terror into my heart. Where I had found a semblance of belonging in the Impirum village, I now felt fully alien. This sweating sea of humanity would take one look at me and call me out as an imposter.

I immediately saw the marked difference in ceremonial dress that divided the Impirum from the Warik. Both adorned their bodies with armbands and shells, preferring mother-of-pearl above all others. Both used carefully applied pigments to mark their faces and bodies with intricate designs, some terrifying, some delightful. Both wore headdresses and piercings through septa and ears.

But many of the Warik also wore human bones and favored headdresses formed from the carcasses of large black fruit bats or foxes. Skulls hung from the backs of many, and even more wore the lower jaw of a human as a necklace. These skulls came from their enemies, I guessed, not from deceased relatives.

Beside me Lela had already begun to move with the music, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were locked on the large tree, where several small groups of lords had gathered beneath its branches. Tengan, the muhan warrior she hoped would choose her, was there. As were Butos and Wilam.

And Kirutu. All three in ornate splendor. A young woman sat on the ground next to Kirutu. His new wife.

A caller’s voice rang out: “We are the people of the Tulim, and these are our muhan.”

Although I could understand some of his words, Lela repeated them for my benefit as five thousand voices thundered approval in tandem with pounding heels. “
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
!”

The ground shook under my feet.

“We are the people of the Tulim and the evil spirits flee at the sight of our shields.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”

The guttural sound of their resounding mantra filled the valley and sent a chill through my bones. I felt terrified and awed at once.

“We are the people of the Tulim and the whole world fears our name.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”

“Now our muhan Kirutu will receive his bride and his seed will bring new life.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”

Another cry went up, this one from an elderly man who ran toward us, then doubled back, shaking his long bow at the sky. “Our muhan is Wilam and he will bring great power through his many wives.”

Eyes turned toward Melino. Her arrival had been noted.

The response rumbled. “
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
!”

The man ran again. “Our father is Isaka and the sky bows to his name.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”

Of all the muhan, only Isaka was absent. I was told that he was still alive, but asleep. I wondered if he was in a coma.

“Our muhan is Butos and he will send the spirits to the sea,” the runner cried.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”

“Our muhan is Kirutu and he will gather the wam like insects and cook them in his fire.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”

They were singing of their muhan, but all eyes seemed to have turned in our direction, and it occurred to me that they were now looking at me, not Melino.

“It is now in your hands,” Melino whispered. She stepped away from me and walked toward her husband, who stood under the tree with his back to us.

The first caller’s voice rang out for all to hear once again. “Now we will show our bodies to the spirits of the sky and show that with our muhan we have no fear.”

This time the throng edged forward, stamping the ground with their feet as they chanted agreement. “
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
!”

Melino’s entourage moved closer, taking me with them. Like a noose, the gathering closed around us. I kept my eyes on Wilam’s powerful back, refusing to return the stares of so many who had singled me out.

I was far too terrified to glance in Kirutu’s direction.

Like a tidal wave, anxiety swamped me. I was stepping forward with the rest, moving ever closer to the ceremony under the tree, but I felt as if I were alone on a sea that would swallow me at any moment. I was numb. I did not belong.

The drumming and chanting intensified. Warriors encroached, bending forward as they pressed in, closer, closer. Their voices echoed through the valley:
whoa, whoa, whoa
. But I only heard one word:
wam, wam, wam
.

A new thought suddenly filled my mind. What if Wilam had already told Kirutu his intentions? What if any attempt on my part was already a moot point?

Melino had reached her husband and was speaking into his ear.

Still the warriors tightened their circle, and I with them. Still the drums pounded. Still the chants rumbled through the jungle. Sawim, the witch doctor from the Karun clan, stood to one side of Kirutu, watching me with flat eyes.

We were only twenty paces from the ceremony when I dared a glance in Kirutu’s direction. Panic began to blind me. His unwavering eyes stared, void of expression. But in them I imagined hatred and rage. His tall, muscled form glistened with oil and sweat, and with each breath his body swelled like a knot of angry black vipers. A long, stained cassowary beak hung from his neck, splitting his chest down the breastbone.

I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away. Here was the man who would rape me and then drag me for crocodile bait. Only Wilam could save me.

The chanting suddenly stopped; the drums ceased. The throng stood still. All but me.

I was breathing hard, lost in fear, and I was sure that every eye was fixed on me, the lowly white woman who had dared approach their powerful muhan as if she herself were Tulim. Or was I only imagining such direct attention?

I glanced around frantically and saw their eyes watching me in silence. But there was Melino with her gentle eyes. And Wilam, staring with some curiosity.

In that moment of raw dread, a simple thought dropped into my head, like a gift from heaven.

Sing.

That mad dream that had first prompted me to leave Atlanta skipped through my mind for the first time in weeks. The form in that dream had sung. I had long dismissed any real connection between the dream and my new reality. In fact, I had never again had the dream. But now I remembered the pure, clear note sung in that distant dream as I had first heard it, not as the mocking howl it had become in my more recent memory.

I could sing. It was central to Tulim culture. How often had I delighted the children with my soft song? And I knew no other way to present myself.

So I began to sing.

At first my voice sounded like a pitiful cry from a strangled bird. No song in particular, only a tune, and no tune that I knew.

If any of those near had not been staring, they were now. My voice strengthened and my tone became a little clearer.

My eyes shifted to Wilam and with one look at his soft eyes my tune found melody, and my melody lyrics. A familiar song that I had sung to an audience before warbled from my throat, then found its wings and rose, sweet and high, like a lark sent to the heavens.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”

The stage was now mine and mine alone. It was as if my entire life had somehow pointed to this moment. I forced my legs forward and stepped out from the circle of teeming Tulim.

“That saved a wretch like me…”

My feet carried me into the clearing. It was an intimate call to Wilam, for in that moment I was indeed the wretch, begging for his grace. He couldn’t know the meaning of the words, but neither could he mistake the desperate longing for mercy in my eyes.

“I once was lost but now am found/Was blind but now I see.”

And with those words I let myself believe that I indeed could see.

I could see the beauty of the children laughing with me at the pool; I could see Lela begging me to make this babies; I could see Melino telling me how lovely I looked; I could see Wilam watching me with fascination.

I stepped forward, carried by the music, light like a feather as I slowly approached Wilam.

Surely he’d never heard such a tune. It was in no way superior to their own form of song, but music is its own magical language. For the first time he was really hearing me. They were all hearing me.

My song soared through the air, heard by the farthest warriors, the wives, the children on the hills, all who had come to celebrate this wedding. It was my gift to the Tulim, but even more my promise to Wilam.

See me, hear me, and know that I will intoxicate you with far more than a mere song.

Still I sang, with even more clarity, in perfect pitch, embellishing the melody with gentle runs of my own, running through another verse of that glorious song.

When I was only a few steps from Wilam I glanced at Melino and I smiled with her. My voice carried into the Tulim jungle and beyond, for all the world to hear.

“When we’ve been there ten thousand years…”

I turned slowly and swept my arms, enraptured by a power I had not felt for many years. I was no longer merely wam, but an angel that must be heard to be believed. They were in awe of me. The bond of music had made us one.

My gaze settled on Wilam as I came to the end of the song, and when the last note was gone from my lips and quiet settled around me, I stood still, breathing hard, intently watching his steady eyes.

The whole celebration had been robbed of its breath.

I don’t know what consequence I might have faced if my bid for Wilam’s heart had ended there. But then from the stillness came a small, crystalline voice that pierced my heart. Several short notes, as high and as pure as a sparrow’s call.

I turned to see Yellina standing on the edge of the crowd, crooning at the sky, mimicking my own tune.

“Da, da, dada, daaahhh…”

The blue butterflies on her cheeks bunched as she stepped out toward me, grinning.

My dear, precious Yellina! I rushed up to the little girl, laughing, and I swept her from her feet. Together we spun around singing the tune, like a ballerina and her little apprentice, enchanted by our song.

“Da, da, dada, daaahhh…”

I twirled with her in my arms and the sound of her giggling bubbled over the Tulim like a rippling brook.

Not to be outdone, three, then four other Impirum children ran out and began to hop around, trying their best to join with a chant of their own.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Sounds of delight and laughter spread through the gathering. Nothing was so treasured among the Tulim as children, and the children were commanding their hearts.

I set Yellina down, took her tiny hand, and danced around with her, first one way and then the other. I lost myself in her beaming face and for a few moments I forgot I was only a wam trying to be Tulim. This tiny girl was all that mattered to me. If there were angels, she was surely one, sent by God years before my arrival to give me comfort when I arrived.

The crier who had led the people only minutes earlier began to run before the warriors, issuing a new exuberant chant.